


first impressions

by whoredan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, GOES DOWN, LOTS OF PEOPLE, Lots of shit goes down, MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING, Nonbinary Character, Other, Wendigo, ive tried to write this three times lets hope i dont give up again, lots of shit, people die, yeet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoredan/pseuds/whoredan
Summary: At this point, I feel as if I’ve earned the right to selfishly inflict my own pain onto others. You are now taking this journey with me.TRIGGER WARNING: DEATH, BLOOD, LOTS OF MENTIONS OF NOT GOOD SHIT, BROKEN BONES, STARVATION, SEVERE INJURIES





	1. too young.

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS AGAIN. THIS STORY IS GOING TO GET VERY, VERY DARK. IF ANY OF THE TOPICS LISTED TRIGGER ANY SORT OF INTENSE NEGATIVE REACTION IN YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

This story is different from all the others I’ve written. Everything else I write is set in a fictional world, with fictional characters in fictional situations, making fictional decisions and witnessing fictional deaths. This story is the realest one I have ever told. However outrageous this may seem, however many times your mind yells,  _ That has to be fake!  _ This. Is. Real. At this point, I feel as if I’ve earned the right to selfishly inflict my own pain onto others. You are now taking this journey with me.

 

I guess I should start from the beginning. My name is Adrian Salivio- though, before that I was simply “Rian”. I was born on April 17th, 1997, to my parents- if you could even call them that. Their names were Mary and Robert Salivio. Such ordinary names for not-so-ordinary people. At the time of my birth, I had an older sister, Esme. She was two years older than me. Five years later, on January 8th, 2002, my little brother was born. His legal name is Laurence, but we called him Ren for so long, I’m sure he’d probably forgotten he had another name. 

 

Anyways, time to throw “normal” out the window, now. Here’s where you’re going to mark this one off as fake and shove it in the fiction shelves. My family belongs to the species known as the wendigo. Please, don’t look it up, it’s much better if I just explain. We are not big, hairy monsters like everyone thinks we are. We look just like you! Except for the usually noticeable fangs(I say usually because mine have stayed tiny forever), or the fact that we have to eat human beings to survive. Nowadays, most of us don’t kill to eat. Morgues have become the equivalent to a McDonald’s here. But, back then… things weren’t so great. Especially for my immediate family. My mother and father believed in purity, from our nearly 100% Korean bloodline to how we obtained our sustenance. And there was nothing purer to them than eating right off the fucking bone. Raw. Nothing was purer than the sound of tendons snapping, or the sounds of a dead person’s joints popping out of place when you tugged at their limbs.

 

My apologies if you were eating just now. You may want to be careful throughout the rest of this story. I promise you, it gets worse.

 

One night, when I was six, Robert left the house angrily after a long phone call. He came back covered in red stains. Later that night, the local news reported that his coworker’s family had been massacred in their own home. The only one left alive was a boy in my grade. I still remember his name- Michael DeNiro. I used to look at him and wonder how one human’s eyes could shine so bright, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. After that incident, the light in his eyes went out, and stayed out.

 

My little brother was one.

 

My sister and my brother both began killing at age five. Yes, you read that right, no need to check again. Five years old. Their fifth birthday presents were a set of knives, a gun, and a six-pack of red and white targets.

 

I’d consider myself the rebel child. I was- and still am- reckless, impulsive, and moronic. I continued, time after time after time, to defy my parents at every turn. Enough to the point where, when I was ten years old, my mother busted out the good old home video camera- you know, the one most of you would use to record first steps, or birthday parties? Yeah, that one. She got it out, took me to the basement and asked- no,  _ ordered _ me to kill a man she had tied to a chair, with my bare hands. And she recorded it. I don’t even need to see the recording to know exactly what happened.

 

The basement was dark and musty. It smelled like old people and cobwebs, and spiders crawled across the floor, across my worn down tennis shoes, across the bodies we’d left and forgotten about. I have nightmares, even to this day, about being one of those bodies, having the arachnids crawling out from my dull, empty, dead eyes.

 

I told you it’d get worse.

 

My mother’s voice rang out in the darkness, void of sympathy or any positive emotion at all. “Do it.” She sounded exasperated, angry, annoyed.

 

A higher pitched, shaking voice whispered, “Why? Why do I have to? Mom, I don’t want to.” It was my voice.

 

“You address me as ‘Mother,” and that  _ only.  _ Now,  _ do it. _ ” 

 

My head shook faster than it needed to. Something had stung behind my eyes. “No, no, I don’t want to.  _ Please.  _ You do it, please. Please. Please.”

 

Even then, I knew the lack of a response from my mother was a dangerous thing. Even with my level of recklessness, I had never gotten her to the point where she just.. stopped talking. I couldn’t see it then, but I’m sure she had her arms crossed over her chest. I’m sure she wore a glare on her face, because I could feel her eyes digging a hole into the back of my neck. 

 

The stinging in my eyes disappeared as tears rolled down my own face. All I remember after that is getting kicked in the gut by a foot that wasn’t my mother’s and the endless stream of  _ sorry _ s coming from my mouth.

 

After that, every dream I had was about that man. I hated it. I was sure he’d come back and kill me, too. For revenge. For closure. The paranoia made it impossible for me to sleep. One year passed, and I had killed twenty three more people, left all my friends, and developed dark, dark circles underneath my tired, dull eyes. The light had gone out in mine, too.

 

I was eleven.

 

Less than a month after my twenty-third kill, Esme began acting out as I had. She couldn’t be taken in public for kills anymore, or else she’d scream and kick and cry and hit whatever was closest to her. Eventually, Robert got sick of it. He locked her in her room and didn’t allow her to leave, even to eat. She had a bathroom connected to her room, so that wasn’t an issue. After a week, the only thing I could hear at night was her yelling, her voice filled with pain. I still couldn’t sleep. Two days later, the yelling stopped. I picked the padlock keeping her in and found her passed out on the carpet. Her skin was pale, her breathing was ragged, and her hands shook uncontrollably from extremely low blood sugar. I picked her up, put her over my shoulder, and ran to the hospital three blocks away from our house. I did not tell them what happened. I should have, but I knew we wouldn’t survive in foster care. There was no way. When we returned “home,” we were both berated for what felt like hours.

 

My older sister was thirteen.

 

So.. you could say we had a not-so-great childhood. We stopped acting out after what happened to Esme- though, Ren had never even tried to act out. He was too young. Too trusting. He didn’t deserve to be in this family. He deserved a good, white-picket-fence sort of family. None of us except Esme really deserved his neverending loyalty.

 

I coasted through junior high alone. I didn’t need anyone. I was perfectly  _ fine _ on my own. I was not jealous of the friend group that all sat near each other in my pre-algebra class. I was not jealous of the kid who exited her mother’s car with a smile and a  _ Bye, love you!  _ every morning. I was most definitely not jealous of the kid who sat behind me in English and constantly talked about the wonderful friend he had in Scotland. I wasn’t jealous.

 

My freshman year of high school ended up virtually the same. I made a name for myself in school by taking nothing from no one, despite being a five-foot-three, ninety five pound fourteen year old. I would not be known as the kid whose older sister had to defend them. One week, I punched a senior in the face for getting in my way on purpose(Every time I see him now, he always says, “Hey, it’s that freshman who fuckin’ decked me! Hey, man!” It’s annoying). For the most part, I was avoided. 

 

One kid in my grade always took the time to give me death glares with his lightless eyes.


	2. how i essentially became walking google translate. but better, obviously.

Tenth grade chose to have mercy on me, though I didn’t see it right away. On the first day of school, I was dragged into the main office by Mrs. Cutter, a middle aged blonde woman who happened to be the school counselor. My first assumption was that I’d somehow already gotten myself into trouble.

 

She sat me down in one of two sofa chairs and stared at me for a second or two. I began fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, not meeting her eyes. Eye contact has always made me extremely uncomfortable.

 

“So.” She spoke after what seemed like forever. “We have a student who’s moved here from.. somewhere outside of Seoul.. and we don’t have any translators on hand. She speaks.. very minimal English, so we may need you to help her out for the time being.”

 

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What?”

 

She looked regretful already. “Aren’t you Korean? I assumed so, but I apologize if you’re not, it’s just, you all look so _si-”_

 

“Stop,” I had said quietly, taking off my glasses and cleaning them off. “There are approximately fifty-four countries in Asia, miss, so with all due respect: Asians do not all look the same. You’re just being idiotic. Anyways, I _am_ Korean. The _what_ was referring to the fact that you want _me_ of all people to just be buddy-buddy with some new kid.”

 

I put on my glasses so I could see Mrs. Cutter’s very clearly offended face. She gulped noticeably, swallowing her pride in the process, I guessed. “It could teach you _manners,_ young man.”

 

“You think I _care_ about-”

 

“We’ll fill out your community service hours for the next three school years.”

 

“Deal. Where are they?”

 

“She’s running late, apparently.” She put a put more emphasis on the _she_ than she needed to, which made me think that this student likely did not prefer that specific pronoun.

 

I did not speak until a light tapping was heard on the metal door frame leading into Mrs. Cutter’s office. Lifting my head up, I had turned my entire body towards the door to glare at this new student. They smiled despite my best threatening face and sat in the other sofa chair, saying a phrase in broken English to Mrs. Cutter.

 

“Sorry… for… late… big.. line.. in.. rock yard.”

 

I assumed _rock yard_ probably meant the parking lot.

 

Mrs. Cutter’s eyebrows drew together as she nodded. “Well, Miss, don’t let it happen again. This is Ri-”

 

“Adrian.”

 

“ _Adrian,”_ she glared at me. “Salivio. Your translator.”

 

She looked expectantly at the kid.

 

I gave her an odd look. Did she really expect them to understand that after just saying they didn’t speak much English?

 

The kid looked at her, confused, before turning to me and smiling again. “Hi!” they spoke in a cheery voice. “My.. um, my…” they seemed at a loss for words.

 

I sighed and spoke in Korean. _“You can just speak like this with me. I’m Adrian Salivio. Apparently I’m your translator for.. however long.”_

 

The kid smiled even wider, obviously excited to meet another who spoke their language. _“Oh my goodness, thank you so much. I have no idea what the curly haired lady is saying. Please help.”_ As an afterthought, they added, _“Oh, and I am Seung Chai. They.. they will call me another name, please do not call me that. I prefer to be called a boy.”_

 

I nodded slowly, logging that in my brain for future reference. _“Cool. They tend to use the wrong name for me, as well. I use gender neutral pronouns in English, though.”_

 

Now that I knew his name, I could examine him more carefully. He had soft looking dark hair and pale skin that only made an exception for his rosy cheeks. His eyes still held the light that most did not. I found myself wondering when it would go out, then scolded myself. I can’t think like that. Obviously, he was in my grade. He’s definitely the type to be way too nice to anyone. He already reminded me of Ren. I allowed myself to entertain the thought that they may get along. Ha.

 

Mrs. Cutter looked between us, obviously clueless to what we were saying.

 

 _“Do you always glare at everything like that?”_ Seung asked, tilting his head to the side.

 

I wished he’d mind his own business. _“Yes.”_

 

Seung’s face transformed from happy to concerned. _“Why? Aren’t there things you love?”_

 

I only shrugged. Who does this kid think he is? Why does he suddenly have the right to pry into my life like that? I already regretted agreeing to this. My thoughts had been filled with ideas of just abandoning him.

 

 _“Was that rude? I’m sorry..”_ he looked almost.. sad. That emotion was sadness. Did he really care that much about whether he upset me or not? Or was it just a general thing?

 

My vocal cords stopped working for a couple seconds. Eventually, I choked out words. _“No.. no, it’s okay.. Curiosity isn’t rude.”_

 

Seung’s face went right back to happy. _“Okay! So do we have the same classes? I hope we do, or else the idea of you being my translator would be kind of useless. Would this school make such a dumb arrangement? I think based on how you look at the blonde old lady, she’s probably that weird.”_

 

I raised an eyebrow, amused. _“I’d assume so. Do you have your schedule?”_

 

He nodded, then asked me if I had mine, to which I responded similarly.

 

Blah blah blah, a bunch of boring shit happened. You want me to get on with this, right?

 

Let me just do a quick summary. From that point, I became Seung’s official unofficial translator, since my school was 1. broke, and 2. predominantly monolingual white kids. Not that there’s anything wrong with most white kids. Let’s not get into a race debate. Basically, him and I had all the same classes, so I’d follow him around everywhere and tell him what the fuck was going on. And, _yeah,_ okay, I did take some opportunities to mess with him in the beginning. I don’t get much entertainment elsewhere. It was _his_ fault for not paying attention when I told him that the answer to a trigonometric identities problem was 7. I stand by that. He’d tell you the same thing. Did that get a bit spoilery? Haha, whoops. Anyways, that’s all you need to know. Onto the more important parts.

 

Chronologically, the first important bit is.. not very fun. But you expected that, right? If you still think this story is going to be happy, maybe you’ve passed idiocy and gone straight to believing the moon landing was faked. Whatever. I don’t judge(yes I do).

 

After about two months, I have to admit, Seung started to grow on me, in the way that a mushroom grows on a dead body. Kind of annoying, but beneficial.. I _guess._ He wasn’t a total dumbass, and he’d been catching onto learning English pretty well- at that point, he could string full sentences together without pausing in between words.

 

So, you remember that kid I mentioned before? The one who kept giving me death glares for no apparent reason? I’m sure you figured it out by my very, _very_ obvious wording, but there _was_ a reason for those death glares. That kid was Michael DeNiro. Woah, shocker. You should’ve expected he’d show up soon. Anyways. I’d only realized it was him after _also_ realizing I shared a class with him. Sharing a class with the dude whose family was murdered by yours is not as fun of an experience as people would say it is. And besides, he just looked so.. different, now. His skin was dry and riddled with acne, as most teenagers’ would be.. but that was where the normalcy ended. He had a scar that cut through the end of his left eyebrow, another in his hairline, another vertically along the side of his neck- you get the point. He wore a thick sweatshirt and jeans, and supposedly he’d refuse to remove them, even for PE. Once, I saw him being dragged to the principal’s office, yelling.. _something_ at the people pulling him along. I had seen it through a classroom window, and I’m afraid I’ve never been very good at lip reading. He was just.. angry. He was always angry.

 

One day, I was at lunch, eating whatever cardboard-flavored item I had chosen from the menu while trying to explain what the hell significant figures were to a very confused Seung, when Michael came confidently sauntering- _yes,_ sauntering, shut _up-_ over to us.

 

“So, I see your.. _whatever_ that is is back,” he said slowly, looking at Seung.

 

“Yes?” I had said, matching his talking speed as I raised one eyebrow. “Why do you care?”

 

“Hey, no need to get offensive,” he had muttered in a way that didn’t exactly fit his words.

 

“Um? Okay?” I twirled a mechanical pencil I was holding between two fingers- you know, like those assholes in class do. I am that person.

 

“I was just wondering if she’d finally got tired of you and left.”

 

My hand closed around the pencil, gripping it tightly. Two fingers tapped twice on my closed hand, and I reluctantly let the pencil go before I crushed it.

 

“Ooh, did I hit a soft spot, there? Oh, well. It seems she’s _trained_ you well enough. What are you, an attack dog?” Michael grinned, as if the whole conversation was the funniest he’d ever had.

 

Seung’s eyebrows drew together and he finally spoke. “Um.. They are not an ‘attack dog.’ They are a human being?”

 

Well, you’re _wrong,_ but thanks for the effort, bud.

 

Michael only laughed. “Yeah. A human being.. Sure, and I’m Kim Jong Un. Boom, you’re dead!”

 

“You should not joke about things you don’t know about..” Seung said, keeping the same concerned/confused expression he had before.

 

“Whoopsies, did I trigger some sort of mechanical mechanism in you?” He pulled his eyes back and began talking like a robot. “Must.. forget how to use contractions..”

 

“That.. doesn’t even make sense, dude,” I grit my teeth, digging my nails into the palm of my hand.

 

Michael let his eyes go. “Really? I thought it was quite obvious. She’s a squinty dumbass who can’t even use the word ‘shouldn’t’!”

 

“Ah. In that case, your joke wasn’t very funny, then.”

 

Seung still looked confused. “Are you okay?” he asked. That was one of the first phrases he’d asked to learn.

 

“Wh-” Michael was cut off.

 

“You do not look like you are okay. Do you need help?” Seung reached over and grabbed Michael’s hand.

 

The latter slapped Seung’s hand off of his, causing him to flinch dramatically and hold his hand close to his chest. I stood and grabbed the front of Michael’s shirt, slamming him against the nearest wall. Not my most thought out idea, I will admit.

 

“Never. Fucking. Do that. Again,” I had whispered. Would it be cliche of me to use the term “deadly calm” to describe my voice? Probably. Kind of cringey.

 

“Ooh, scary,” he said, matching my volume. “What’re you gonna do, eat me?”

 

After that comment, I let go of his shirt and shoved him away from the table where Seung was still sitting, just staring at the wooden surface. I returned and hesitantly put a hand on Seung’s shoulder, which made him jump again and apologize. He gave a quick smile that was just slightly different from the one he usually gave, as if he’d forced it. Whatever. It’s not like I _cared,_ or anything.

 

I ended up getting detention that day. Oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so. adrian doesnt correct michael on seung's pronouns because seung specifically asked them not to do that, or else michael would have gotten shoved against that wall much sooner.
> 
> also do u love the implication that seung has had abusers in the past because wowie wow wow i hate it

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry i swear next chapter things will be happy before i inevitably tear that away from you too
> 
> adrian uses they/them pronouns.


End file.
